The Science of Abduction
by PauraSorridere
Summary: I am already inspecting the body. "Someone is sending me a message." I turn to John, mustering the most remorseful look I can muster. I only hope it's enough to cover my excitement as I say, "I think we've reached the middle."
1. One Year Ago

"**The Science of Abduction; or The One Where Sherlock Is Weak"**

_A/N: This is kind of an experiment. I'm not sure if I like it. Your feedback is legitimately invaluable. (Your constructive feedback is, at least.)_

_Warnings: slash, murder, and drug use._

**One Year Ago: Sherlock Makes a Fateful Choice**

This isn't the first time my best wasn't enough.

This isn't the first time someone has died because of it.

I think this is the first time I've cared.

I can't look away from John, motionless, no life in his eyes.

He's not dead. No, it's far worse than that. He's in shock, denial, something. My phone goes off.

It has only one cryptic message: _She is only the beginning. –M_

Only a moment has passed since I made the decision that resulted in Sarah's early death. Another moment passes as I look at her. Apart from the red line of coagulating blood running down the side of her face, she could simply be sleeping. I look back to John. He cannot look away from her and I steer him out of the room.

On the way back to our flat, John refuses to speak a word, make a sound. At some point, I stare at his chest until I receive confirmation that he is even breathing.

It's not until I join him on the sofa that he breaks the silence.

"You should have chosen her."

"No."

My response, blunt and even-toned as ever is not what he wants to hear, but he clearly cannot conceive any argument. A sob escapes him.

I rethink my choice. Had I chosen Sarah, she would have lived and John would have died. I would have done my best, but I could not have gotten both of them in time. John and Sarah are- or in Sarah's case, were- medical professionals. They helped the sick and injured. John helped to catch criminals. So did Sarah, once. My list of pros and cons continues in my mind until I reach the fact that John pays a portion of my rent. Another sob escapes him.

John is a good man. Sarah was a good woman, but she wasn't as good as him. I'm not certain why, but I know I made the right choice. The only problem is that now I have a grieving flatmate and I do not know how to deal with him.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, and it's not a lie. I don't know how to deal with others' emotions. I understand, but I'm incapable of tolerating it. I need to make him better.

"You're not sorry," he argues.

Academically, I know that he will want to be sad. I know that it's natural, necessary… But I cannot tolerate it. "I am," I assure my grieving flatmate. "If I could have saved her, I would."

"You could have!" John explodes. "But you didn't! All you had to do was let them kill me."

"That wasn't an option."

My chest throbs for a moment with some non-physical discomfort.

Interesting.

Instead of arguing, he buries his face in his hands as the grief spills over completely. I sit for a moment, trying to think of something- anything- to do. I decide to try the foreign approach: wrap an arm round his shoulders and give it a squeeze. Instead of sobbing on into his hands, John turns into me, seeking some kind of hug, I think.

I send my other arm round him so that I am hugging him, and my face heats up. There is some not entirely unpleasant feeling wafting through my torso.

Very interesting.

After about an hour, John's grief dissipates and I realize he's asleep. I find some way to get more comfortable. I don't want to wake him as he will only experience more grief and I do not think I will be able to sit through it another time. So I hold John Watson as he sleeps, and I soon drift off myself.

One question rings through my mind before I slip into slumber: if Sarah is only the beginning, what- or who?- will be the middle and end?


	2. Eleven Months Ago

**Eleven Months Ago: The Middle Begins**

"Sherlock," John says as I head for the door. "You've forgot your scarf."

I turn to my flatmate, who is approaching with the aforementioned article of clothing. He slips it over my neck, threading the two ends through the loop slowly. John pats the knot, letting his hand linger so that I can feel the weight of it against my chest. My gaze rises from his hand to his eyes. I lean down to kiss him and he melts into me.

"Sherlock," he smiles as we break apart. "You're going to be late." I frown at him in confusion.

"Sherlock!" I bolt up in bed, thoroughly confused. "Sherlock, we're late. Lestrade-"

"Yes, what is it?" I ask, quickly trying to delete what I just dreamed, but succeeding only in saving it and backing up the files.

"They've found a body and it's got your name on it," John informs me. "Literally."

I dress quickly. The thoughts have been fleeting, but slowly sneaking up on me more frequently since the night Sarah died. Since the night I got Sarah killed. Or, I suppose, since the night I failed to save Sarah. It occurs to me that I spend too much time arguing with myself over semantics. The fact remains that this is the first time the thoughts have invaded my dreams.

I like the feel of holding John Watson. This deduction cannot be refuted.

It can, however, be ignored.

I grab my phone and head for the door. "Sherlock," John stops me. "You've forgot your scarf."

The color drains from my face and I accept it from him with a terse nod before wrapping it round my neck and heading out the door.

When we arrive, we are clearly late. Lestrade gives us- or rather, me- a brief lecture on how the police work. He informs me that he'll have extra paperwork to fill out on why he held officers here after they'd finished gathering what evidence they needed and "I was waiting on a consulting detective" just won't look good enough.

I consider picking his pocket.

Lestrade finishes his lecture, but I am already inspecting the body. My initials are written in marker across her forehead. John crouches across the corpse from me. I watch his face, waiting.

There it is: a spark of recognition. "Does she look familiar, Sherlock?" He looks up and sees me observing his reaction and cleverly deduces that I recognize her as well. "Have we seen her before?"

"Her name was Amanda," I inform him. "You've seen her three times in passing."

"Who is she?"

I don't reply. "What can you tell me about her?" I ask instead.

John frowns. He wants to argue. He hates seeing just how detached I am and this is clearly right on the line for him. With a sigh, he gives in to my demands. "Clothes are well worn, but they don't look terribly disturbed," he begins. "So if there was a fight, it was over quickly." He examines her neck. "No bruising, but here- A couple of injections in the neck. Poison?"

"Possibly," I say. "But who is she, John?"

I'm pushing buttons and I'm not certain how many more I'll push before he loses his cool, but I want him to figure it out. He moves on to the next visible bit of skin: her hands. "Dirt under her fingernails. Either she had poor hygiene or-" he sees the cup marked as evidence a few feet away. "Homeless." He looks up at me. "Sherlock, this isn't-?"

I nod. "Well done, John. Someone is sending me a message." I stand. I can feel John's appalled look burning into my back. "They're telling me that they know how I operate, where I get my information. They're warning me that they can make it stop."

"By killing a woman who helped you solve a case?"

I turn to him, mustering the most remorseful look I can muster. I only hope it's enough to cover my excitement as I say, "I think we've reached the middle."


	3. Ten Months Ago

**Ten Months Ago: Praise from the Great Sherlock Holmes**

If I'd known when I'd gone to find Mrs. Hudson this morning that it would end in my building becoming a crime scene, I would've stayed in bed.

But, as it is, I have not yet mastered the art of precognition so it was with great dismay that I discovered her dead, injection marks on her neck, my initials inked on her forehead. The police have been here for hours, gathering information on who knows what, being as loud as you please, and stomping up and down the stairs to ask inane questions.

I resort to bolting myself in my room and playing the violin. It's as close to peace or quiet as I seem destined to get today.

Finally, they leave and I join John out in the main room of the flat. He's blogging about something and I realize just in time to wipe the expression away that I'm smiling fondly at him. I have a strange urge to press the tension from his shoulders.

Also interesting.

"I can't believe they went after Mrs. Hudson," John said mournfully.

Boring.

"Is that what you're typing?" I ask, hoping it's more interesting than that.

"No," John shakes his head. "I'm blogging about morphine."

I pause, remembering the lab reports we'd received regarding the chemical analysis on Amanda's blood. She'd overdosed on morphine. If it weren't for my name on her forehead, they would've ruled it an accident. "I imagine they're going to find Mrs. Hudson also died of a morphine overdose, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," John nods.

"Is that what you're writing?"

"Yes," he confirms.

I smile at him. "You're getting to be quite a talented consulting detective."

"Praise?" he says in sarcastic disbelief. "Am I receiving praise from the great Sherlock Holmes?"

I shift uncomfortably before insisting, "Well, you've clearly learnt it all from me. I am the best."

John laughs a little and shakes his head and it strikes me that I amuse him when I say things that would put everyone else off. Is this why a smile fights for a spot on my face whenever I see him? I can't remember the last time someone thought I was brilliant- in a good way, and not in an annoying way.

"Well," I say suddenly. "All that avoiding human contact really took it out of me today. I'll be off to sleep."

"You do that," he says, face still amused. I find that I like making John smile.

I add this observation to the ever-growing file of my behaviours which are interesting.

I wake suddenly in the middle of the night. I hear a banging noise, sit up, and place it. It's upstairs, sounds like wood on wood, something small, about the size of… A window. John's left his bedroom window unlatched and the breeze is blowing it open and shut.

Why doesn't he shut it? The noise must be-

I run through the flat calling his name. He doesn't answer.

"John!" I yell as I throw open his bedroom door.

The window slams rhythmically with the wind. I stumble back.

Slam.

I hit the wall.

Slam.

I slide down.

Slam.

I hit the floor.

Slam.

There's so much blood. I don't even check for a pulse because I know that no one can survive that much blood loss and I can't bring myself any closer to him. Not like that.

A small sob escapes me and I open my eyes only to discover I am still in my bed. It takes far too long for me to deduce that I was merely dreaming. Even so, I refuse to trust my assumption.

I climb the stair to John's room and peer inside.

He's fine. I watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes and lean against his door frame in relief. I don't know what I'd do if he were dead.

Fascinating.


	4. Nine Months Ago

**Nine Months Ago: Close to Home**

I was wondering when Moriarty would strike again.

This time it's half two in the afternoon when we set off in a cab for a respectable café where dear Jim has left us his latest gift- in a women's washroom.

"Sherlock, there's something you should know-" Lestrade is saying.

"You're standing in front of me," I remark indifferently as I steer deftly past him. "You can walk and talk, can't you detective inspector?"

"Sherlock, the victim-"

But I've beaten him to it. I've already seen and deduced what he thought so important to tell me.

"Phone Mycroft," I say. "He will wish to be informed."

Whatever reaction Lestrade was expecting, this is not it. I think even he expected some kind of emotional reaction from me, but I am solving a puzzle. I find the injection site and take some extra time examining her corpse simply to avoid the stares.

I'm tired of everyone's constant surprise over my alleged emotional deficiencies.

"But I don't understand," John is saying.

"That's-" Lestrade begins.

I stand and turn just in time to interject, "my mother. Moriarty thinks he can get at me by killing off dear old mummy. Definitely sends a message, don't you think?"

John follows me out of the room. "Sherlock-"

"It'll be a morphine overdose, just like all the others," I inform him tersely.

"Sherlock."

"You think I should be upset," I acknowledge. "Maybe I should, but she was hardly a mother to me. Never acted like much of one, never treated me like a mother should treat a son. I'd think you'd be able to deduce that yourself, John. After all, good mothers don't raise high-functioning sociopaths."

"But she was still your mother."

I have no answer to that.


	5. Eight Months Ago

**Eight Months Ago: Sherlock Ex Machina**

"Sherlock, it was-"

"I know who it was, John," I snap at him. "We all knew who it was. There is a game afoot."

"Sherlock, she's dead, and you're talking about games!"

"Exactly, John!" I blurt out. "She's dead! Will pining bring her back? No! If I were poor Molly Hooper, I'd want my murderer brought to justice instead of a bunch of people weeping over my fate."

"That's not the point!"

I whirl away from Doctor Watson, furious that he has to be grieving and that he has to do it by rowing with me. "Then what is the point, John?"

"The point," he says, losing steam. John grabs an inspired breath, clearly having found the proper argument. "The point is that she liked you, Sherlock. Maybe not in some way you find acceptable, but she did. She helped you out, risked her job to let you access evidence you had no right to-"

"Being upset isn't going to change what happened to her, John," I remind him.

John simply scoffs in disbelief. He can't look at me. "Are you really that cold, Sherlock?" he asks. "Maybe they were right. Maybe you are a psychopath."

"High-functioning-"

"Sociopath," John finishes for me. "Yeah, you said. Sherlock. He's killed people. He's killed people you should care about. People who've helped you. He killed your own mother and you just go on like some indifferent… It's like you're not even human."

"Don't-" I say and my voice catches. I turn away. I don't want to see the way I'm sure his face is lighting up at any chance of my showing some kind of _normal_ reaction.

John takes a step forward. I can hear his awkward shuffle on the carpet. Maybe I should be upset. Maybe that's what a normal person would do. But I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm not normal. As John said… But that's just it. Moriarty will be gunning for John and I can't let him. I've got to protect my blogger, after all. "Sherlock…"

"Give it up, John. I solve puzzles. That's what I do."

"Yeah," John agrees. "That's all you care about. The puzzle. People, they're just pawns. Why on Earth should you care about them? They only move one space at a time. They're slow. Can only-"

"Of course I care!" I erupt. I feel all of my self-control evaporating. Anyone else can call me a freak, call me inhuman, but not John. Not when he believes it. "But what good does it do, John?"

Then, to my own immense displeasure, I'm crying.

Appalling.

John pulls me into a tight embrace and says stupid little words of comfort, I suppose.

Beautiful.

The word pops into my mind and I feel nothing but confusion. It slops on top of the tears slithering their way out of my eyes and dribbles with them onto John's shoulder. I cling to him, certain that if I don't, I will fall.

I am falling.

Moriarty has won this round.


	6. Six Months Ago

**Six Months Ago: The Watchtower**

He's peaceful when he sleeps.

This is what stays with me. Waking, John is always upright, a bit closed off, but he curls when he sleeps. The fact that he curls up against me is not entirely unpleasant either.

I learned early that some of my observations shouldn't be voiced. People don't like to hear them. People sometimes don't even realize them until I say them. One such observation is that John, when up and about, has a tendency to compensate. He doesn't overcompensate. No, he simply walks an imperceptible amount too tall, too stiffly, too businesslike. At first I assumed it was his military bearing, but then I realized: John thinks he is short. It colors the way he moves, the way his shoulders slump a little when he's not paying attention.

Frankly, he may be on the lower end of average, but short? No. However, everyone has something about themselves for which they feel inferior. Well, everyone except me.

I can't explain to myself why I'm doing this here and now. I've been lying here awake, observing John as he sleeps, feeling the weight of him against my side and on my chest for hours. I certainly can't explain the irrational fear which grips me every time I close my eyes that I'll open them to find him dead or worse.

His face has changed. There's a slight tension in his brow, imperceptible one might say. I've been watching John for hours, though, and I'm also far more perceptive than most. Very little is imperceptible for me.

I raise my hand from his waist and run my hand lightly over his hair. His index finger twitches on my stomach. I deduce he's dreaming about the war and let my other hand rest on top of his. He doesn't need to wage war sleeping or awake. I won't let him.

Unless he wants to.

I think I am in love with John Watson.

This is new.


	7. Five Months Ago

**Five Months Ago: Sherlock's Worst Nightmare**

I was wrong.

It doesn't happen often. In fact, this may be the first time I have ever been utterly and completely wrong.

There is one area in which I feel inferior and it has just reared its ugly head in the most unattractive way possible. I don't know what it is I've said. I can't even remember the words, but I've offended John.

Social niceties: even when I have the patience for them, I manage to bollix them up. This is the way in which I am inferior. It's the only way, but it suddenly seems like the most important thing in the world.

"I'm sorry, John."

I wait for him to reply, but instead he sighs and walks out of the room. I follow.

He's packing. "You're packing," I observe aloud.

"Yes," he agrees. "I'm moving out."

I feel ill. "Where will you go?"

"Away from you, Sherlock," John says. "All I know is that you're impossible."

"I said I was sorry."

"Yeah," John agrees. "You did say that."

"I meant it," I promise vehemently. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's just it," John states. "You don't mean to hurt people, but somehow everyone around you ends up dead. You're an emotional cripple, Sherlock. Incapable of relating to another human being in any capacity."

"John-"

"Sherlock?"

I'm asleep. I was having a dream. John is curled up against my side, looking sleepy yet concerned.

It's heinously endearing.

"Fine," I say a little too thickly and a little too late.

He reaches up and touches my face. I resist the urge to close my eyes for fear of being sent back to a dream where John is leaving and I am alone again. I can't be alone. Not again.

I pull away with my body just enough to press my mouth to his.

"Sherlock-" John says as he breaks the kiss. "What's going on?"

I don't answer. I can't. I will do anything to keep him happy and here. I kiss him again, sliding my hand down his torso, below his belt- slowly, so he has the opportunity to stop me if he wants. He does not. A rush of air huffs out of him- in pleasure I hope. "Sherlock-"

Pleasure, then. I smirk into the kiss, drunk on John's reaction.

Then he takes control, rising just enough to roll us so that he is on top of me and I lift my head, craning my neck away from the pillow, demanding more little kisses.

It's awkward. I'm told these things are always awkward the first time round. Somehow, I expected that we would just fit, but I suppose even I'm prone to romanticizing things.

That doesn't make it any less enjoyable when I feel his breath on my neck, or when he finds just the right angle. I say his name, relishing in the fact that it is, in fact, his name and that I'm saying it in this context.

I can't get enough of John's name. Finally, he breathes my name against my neck and I am undone.

John collapses on top of me, out of breath, a few moments later. I hug him to my chest, trying not to think about the crushing metaphysical weight of my suddenly returning anxiety.

I turn my face just enough to place a kiss against his neck. He mirrors my action.

I think I am becoming slightly codependent.


	8. Two Months Ago

**Two Months Ago: The Death of a Friend**

I try to get John out the door, but he is inconsolable.

"John, the crime scene won't be-"

"Damn the crime scene, Sherlock!" John rages. "He was our friend!"

I try to be patient. I really do, but we've been down this road so many times and it never leads anywhere different. "I don't do mourning, John," I remind him calmly. "I solve problems. I'm sorry, but I can't. You know this."

"Maybe it's a sign," John says.

"What is?"

"Mike bloody Stamford!" John exclaims. "I've been here with you for ages, Sherlock, and while I admit you are occasionally capable of the act, human emotion just eludes you and I can't stay and watch anymore. Maybe Mike is a sign because he's the reason we became flatmates in the first place and now he's dead."

I wait for myself to wake up.

John waits for a reply. He gives up just as I realize that there is nothing to wake up from. This is happening.

"I don't know why I expected you to argue."

"Argue with what?" I ask quietly.

"Go solve your case, Sherlock."

I want to ask him if he'll still be here when I get back, but I've already deduced the answer.

When I return later, it's to a predictably half empty apartment.


	9. One Month Ago

**One Month Ago: The Weather Is Turning**

So.

Moriarty beat the woman who beat me.

I stare at Irene Adler's lifeless corpse. I glare at the black ink of my initials on her forehead, at the way she's laid out respectably as though we were already at her funeral.

I see the flower petal stuck to the side of shoe, notice that it's not browning yet- fresh. I see no traces of any other flowers around. She hasn't been here long.

"She was killed early this morning," I say. "In the park half a mile that way."

I gesture vaguely to the left.

No one asks me to explain. I do anyway. I like the little squirm of discomfort when Lestrade meets my gaze. It's not that I'm bored. I'm just not interested anymore.

"The petal stuck to her shoe is from the now-wilting perennials in the park," I say. "Stuck there by morning dew, not yet dry enough for the petal to fall off. This morning."

Except even the twinge of awkwardness on Lestrade's face doesn't please me.

Stupid blogger.

He's ruined the one thing I've ever enjoyed.

It's time to visit someone I haven't seen in a while: my dealer.


	10. One Week Ago

**One Week Ago: Regression**

My eyelids are heavy when they finally open. They feel swollen, though I know they're not. I'm just drowsy and still a little bit recreationally mellow.

I smile a bit when I realize I have a new message from Lestrade.

"About time someone up and died," I say to the empty flat.

I pull on some fresh trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and throw on my overcoat and scarf. Today is going to be a good day.

Only today is not a good day. I do not make it to the crime scene before I turn and all but run in the opposite direction.

What is John doing here? Why did Lestrade call him in, too?

I duck into a café three blocks down. I'll have a cup of tea and wait until John has seen whatever he needs to see before I go in.

Today was going so well before I saw John. When did I turn into a teenage girl? Avoiding John Watson like a child, hiding in a café until it's safe to examine a corpse.

I might as well buy hair product and a box of tampons because I'm clearly not the man I thought I was.

I abandon my tea at the table as I migrate to the toilet.

It's not that I need a toilet.

It's that I don't need anyone to witness the salt water tracking its way from my eyes to my chin.


	11. Three Days Ago

**Three Days Ago: Take Me Away**

I should eat something.

I heave myself off the sofa and stagger into the kitchen. The floor tries to knock me over, but it can't get the best of me.

There's nothing in the cabinets.

I should buy groceries.

I layer up, wincing as my coat hits the tender spot in the crook of my elbow.

I pocket my wallet and keys and sling an empty grocery bag over my shoulder as I leave the flat.

The past month has been a series of snapshots, memories not quite connecting, and crystal clear moments involving shaking hands and desperate injections.

The only difference between the past month and this very moment is that, instead of needles, I meet thugs.

I don't cry out as they shove a rag into my mouth and drag me into a car with tinted windows. It could be my brother, but I know it is not.

I wonder if Moriarty is as bored as I am.


	12. Two Days Ago

**Two Days Ago: A Distinct Lack**

"Oh, good! You're awake!"

Moriarty's crazed laugh jars my brain. I'm sprawled out in the middle of the floor, hands and feet bound. My eyes are watering, my nose is running, and my stomach keeps twisting into some very creative pretzels. Once I stop paying attention to my stomach, I realize that I hurt everywhere. I hurt everywhere and I'm sweating and shivering and is this warehouse above freezing?

It's the withdrawal. It takes me longer than usual to deduce. I don't know how long I've been out.

"Where's that Doctor of yours?" Moriarty teases. He flips me onto my back with the toe of his shoe. "Oh, that's right. He couldn't take it anymore. He _left_ you."

I don't reply. I can't. I was wrong when I said everything hurt earlier. It didn't. _Now_ everything hurts.

"Cat got your tongue?" he titters. "So, have you figured it out, Sherlock?"

"Figured what out?" I grit out.

Moriarty crouches down to see my face better. "What it's all about," he replies as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I mean, I've had everyone who's ever helped you killed." He is about to stand, but arrests the movement. "Well," he corrects himself. "Almost everyone."

A lightning storm tears through my body. This is fear. "So, what?" I force out. "Here to kill me with withdrawal?"

"No, I've spent the past year killing you, Sherlock," he chortles. "Well, had to make you really happy in the middle there. Otherwise… Well, death is so much more painful when you lose as much as possible. Don't you think?"

"I think you have a problem with focus, Jim," I taunt. "How many enterprises did you miss because you were toying with me?"

"Toying with you?" Moriarty clicks his tongue in disappointment. "That's not what this is about, Sherlock. Not at all. This has been about breaking you. I told you I would burn you. Have I done it yet? Is your heart still intact?"

"I don't," I grind out, "have a heart."

"Well, we'll see," he says. As he walks away, he adds "Have fun without any more morphine!"


	13. TwentyFour Hours Ago

**Twenty-Four Hours Ago: Sherlock Embraces His Mortality**

Everything is at least a billion times worse. The shaking is as uncontrollable as my breathing.

I don't know how long I have been alone, only that I would vomit if I could. I would faint if I could.

Quite frankly, I would die if I could.

It crosses my mind that I would find death far preferable to any other option.

Please, let it end.


	14. Twenty Hours Ago

**Twenty Hours Ago: Sherlock Is Not a Beggar**

I have finally managed to pass out from the pain when a door slams open loudly and violently. I am already in a fetal position, but I curl into it tighter in an effort to do I don't know what.

"Sherlock," Moriarty sing-songs. "So sorry to wake you."

He draws nearer to me, teasing words assaulting my ears the whole way. "I wanted to make you an offer, Sherlock."

"Go to hell," I barely manage to tell him.

"Well, that's not very nice," he chides as he sinks to my level.

He grabs my chin. I try to pull my face away, but his grip is too strong and I am shaking too hard. "I came to offer you morphine, Sherlock."

"Come to kill me already?"

"No," he replies, eyes widening comically in surprise. "Oh, no, no, no. Sherlock, I come to offer you just enough to stop all… this."

"Right," I scoff.

"To be perfectly honest, you're disgusting right now, Sherlock," Moriarty sighs. "Soon you'll probably be incoherent and it's no fun to taunt someone who can't hear you."

"Shame."

"Surely you don't want to feel this way?" he asks. He takes my lack of response as an affirmative. "I will give you a safe dose, Sherlock. I swear on all that is criminal and entertaining. All you have to do… is beg."

I glare at him. "Then I imagine you will be very bored very soon," I strangle out. I think my whole body just took a swan dive off a building. It's not the dive I'm feeling, but the sudden stop and explosion of pain at the end.

"You'll break, Sherlock," he states calmly. Then he stands. As he walks away, he calls over his shoulder "I won't be back, Sherlock. Not until you beg."


	15. Sixteen Hours Ago

**Sixteen Hours Ago: Sherlock Begs**

It feels like days of shaking and hurting and the inability to fall unconscious.

There are no windows here. It's simply an abandoned warehouse, large and oppressive. The walls are at once pressing in on me and drawing away, leaving me with a horribly vulnerable feeling that I despise.

"Please," I hear more than feel myself saying. "Please, make it stop."

Moments later, Moriarty charges in.

"Four hours," he announces. "More than I could have done, I grant you."

I clam up.

"Now, what was that you were saying, Sherlock?"

I keep my mouth shut, breathing harshly through my nose.

"I can't help if you don't beg, Sherlock."

For a moment, I think I'm going to hold out longer. I desperately want to die before giving in, but then it slips out- small, quiet, traitorous, but it is my own voice- "Kill me."

"Kill you?" Moriarty repeats. "Oh, Sherlock. Let's not be melodramatic. A little morphine will have you feeling like normal in no time."

"Kill me," I reiterate a little louder.

"Hm," the villain thinks. "Not what I expected. No, that's a lie. Exactly what I expected, but I'm still… disappointed. So, Sherlock. Just to be clear- You're begging for death?"

"Yes."

"Very well," he says a little too gleefully and turns to the doors. "Send him in!"

My heart jumps into my throat and I turn toward the creaking sound of the door opening.

It's John. They've got John.

"No," I say. "No, you can't-"

"But, Sherlock," Moriarty interrupts, mocking me with his false disbelief. "You said death. I can't imagine you meant your own."

"Let him go," I plead. "Please."

"Now, that's the begging I wanted to hear!" Moriarty exclaims triumphantly. "As your reward, I'll give you some time to say goodbye."

Moriarty crosses back to me to whisper in my ear. "Tell me, Sherlock," he teases. "How long have you been in love with Doctor Watson?"

My look of terror as Moriarty backs away tells him all he needs to know. John says my name. It's a question. I can't answer.

I was too careless, too obvious. There's a reason I made it a policy never to fall in love. People leave, distract you, and create a weakness. Cases will always exist. There is always some psychopath out killing.

John is at my side, examining me, trying to figure out just what is wrong with me.

I shove him away. "Sherlock, it's John. I'm trying to help."

"I know who you are," I inform him, barely keeping my emotions under the surface. "There's nothing you can do. Leave me alone. It's what you're good at."

"What?"

I reply by committing the painful act of rolling over so that my back is facing him.

He doesn't press the issue.


	16. Fifteen Hours Ago

**Fifteen Hours Ago: Watson Does His Job**

I just want to sleep. It's so cold and I swear there's an invisible man with an invisible steam roller invisibly attempting to flatten me.

I flinch as I feel a hand on my shoulder. Another slides under my head, and I feel John pressing his body up against my back. "I don't want-"

"Maybe not," John cuts me off. "But you need it. If I had a blanket… But I don't."

There are so many things that I want to say right now. I want to thank him, tell him that I miss him, that everything's just a little bit brighter when he's around. What I say instead is, "I hate you."

"That's fine," he replies calmly.

"I mean it," I insist. "I hate you, John Watson."

"Still a doctor," he states. "Still going to do my job."

I mean to say something scathing, but my anger evanesces and all I can do is ask, "Why did you leave me?"

"What?"

I don't want to repeat it. I want to forget I said it, but everything hurts and I seem to have lost control of my mouth. "Why did you leave me?"

"I told you why, Sherlock," he says in a confused tone.

"Yes," I agree. "I wish you'd died."

"Guess I made the right decision, then."

_If you wanted to hurt me as much as you possibly could, then yes, John. Yes, you did. _

I don't say it, but I want to so badly. "It would have hurt less," I try.

"That's a nice thing to say," John scoffs. "You'd be happier if I was dead than-"

"It wouldn't have been your choice, then," I whimper. "There could have been something I could have done."

"Like what, Sherlock? You can't bring back the dead."

"No," I agree. "But I can hunt down their killers and slowly torture them to death."

"For you, that's almost romantic."

"For me," I repeat. "Well, considering I'm just a subhuman automaton, I'll take that as a compliment."

"Rest," John commands. "You are human, you are unwell, I am a doctor, and you need rest."

I don't know if he knows what he said, but some of the hurt in my chest lessens fractionally.


	17. Fourteen Hours Ago

**Fourteen Hours Ago: Is Your Heart Still Intact?**

I feel safe.

Everything hurts, I can't stop shaking, and Moriarty is undoubtedly watching our every move, but I feel safe. I have John Watson wrapped around me and this is the closest I've felt to good in two months.

It ends abruptly when Moriarty returns. John moves to get up. "No," I beg. "He'll kill you."

"Not if I kill him first."

"You won't," I insist, unable to tame my anxiety. "John, please."

I stare around the room. I need a weapon.

My back is cold without John there.

No, I have to focus.

Everything hurts so much.

But I have to focus.

I force myself to crawl toward Moriarty. I'm going to kill him. It's the only way to stop this. I have to kill Jim Moriarty. I'll strangle him with my bare hands if I must.

If I can.

He chuckles a little when he sees what I'm doing. I can't even stand. My legs are shaking too badly to hold my weight. "Look at the little engine that could," Moriarty remarks in an amused tone. He waits until I am in reach and then hops out of the way. "You're too slow, Sherlock. Look."

I turn, knowing what I'm going to find. Red laser dots freckle John's shirt, concentrated over his heart. I don't plead. That will make it worse. Nothing I can say will change his mind. If anything, begging for John's life will make it worse. At least this way, it'll be quick.

"I'm sorry."

My words are a whisper, but John hears them anyway.

"Oh, how touching," Moriarty gushes. Then, in a bored voice, "Shoot him!"

John goes down.

The look of shock on his face, of anger sears itself into my mind. I know in that instant that I will never forget it. I see the small stain of blood forming directly over his heart before he is flat on his back and it is blessedly out of my sight.

Moriarty flips me onto my back, leaning over me. I grab him by the throat.

I'm doing some damage. I can tell by the way his face turns into a grimace and his eyes bulge just a little. It doesn't stop him from whatever he's doing, though.

Then I understand. I see him pulling the clear liquid into a syringe and barely feel it plunge into my neck.

I squeeze as hard as I can and twist. I think I break Moriarty's neck.

He stops moving at any rate, and I waste no time in crawling to John. There's no way he could still be alive, but I have to… I don't know. There has to be something else I can do.

I touch his shoulder. "John."

The morphine is clouding my mind. He doesn't react and I say his name again. I lean my head on his shoulder as my muscles start to go completely limp.

John is dead and I feel almost happy. I've never hated this drug so much.

I'm not aware of falling asleep, but after lying about long enough, I start to dream. John wakes, coughing, calls my name. I don't answer. Whether it's because of the drug or because of some rule that I can't speak in this dream, I am uncertain.

John opens my eyes wide and examines them. "Sherlock!" his voice echoes to me.

Then John is gone, footsteps running away. I hear the buttons on a phone and realize that Moriarty must still be lying there dead even in my dream. I wonder what will happen when I wake with the withdrawal again.

John turns his cheek toward my slightly open mouth, watching my chest. Satisfied with whatever he's done, John places a hand on my sternum and watches my face.

I drift.

The last thing I hear before the dream ends is John's voice.

"Breathing depressed… pupils constricted… morphine…"


	18. Now

**Now: Sherlock Wakes in Hospital**

My throat is dry.

This is my first observation. It's followed closely by sounds and smells one can only find in combination in a hospital, and the soft and clean feel of hospital sheets wrapped around me.

I hate it.

I force my eyes open. They feel swollen, as though I've been sleeping for weeks. Maybe I have. I can't tell. For all I know, I've Rip Van Winkle'd my way into the next century. I touch my face to assure myself there are no wrinkles. The act takes great effort and I shut my eyes wearily as I let my arm fall back to the sterile white sheets.

I haven't gotten a proper look at the room yet. My brain is so foggy. I turn to my left where I can hear the gentle hum of some kind of monitor which I can only assume is hooked up to the things I feel on my chest, forehead, and stuck into the back of my left hand.

Right again. A morphine drip.

A hand slips into my right. Rough, strong, John-sized. I turn to see who owns it and my Doctor Watson is there. I choke back a sob. He only smiles at me. "I was wrong," I say.

"That's a first."

"Yes," I say. "Either there is something after death or you weren't dead to begin with."

"Some kind of sedative," John acknowledges. "Moriarty's shooter really was a crack shot. Managed to miss any vital organs. Well, nicked a lung a little bit, but nothing to slow me down."

"Ah," I half-laugh, half-cry.

I want to burrow into him, I want to hold him, but mostly importantly- I want to be around him.

"I'm sorry," I apologize.

John shrugs uncomfortably. "Nothing you could have done. I think I've made a deduction of my own, Sherlock."

"Have you then?"

"Yeah," he says with a bittersweet smile. "You might be proud. Very impressive for an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

He looks at me, holding my gaze for a moment before shaking it off. "You, uh. You said that if someone had killed me, you'd find my murderer and torture him to death."

"I did say that."

"But Moriarty's neck was broken. Fast and clean."

"Maybe I intended to go after the shooter," I suggest.

"No," John shakes his head. "We both know that no matter who pulled the trigger, it was Moriarty. No, you wanted to kill him, but he managed to get that morphine into your neck before he died. The dose he gave you was massive. Would've killed anyone who didn't have some kind of tolerance."

John stops speaking a moment. There's something he wants to say about my apparent tolerance, but he continues, "You knew you were fading fast. You had to do it then or risk losing him for months, years, maybe forever. You chose to stop him instead of getting your revenge."

"I still won."

"Yeah," he agrees, but the smile is gone.

I squeeze his hand in mine. "Well reasoned," I praise him. "No idiot could have pulled that off. Only a consulting detective like yourself."

He blushes with a little laugh and I feel my heart warm and my hopes rise. "I didn't do so well without my partner," I admit.

"No," he agrees. "You still won, though."

I don't have an answer for that. "Did I?" I query bitterly.

"No case is yet left unsolved by the great Sherlock Holmes."

I have no answer to that.

John sighs and withdraws his hand as he sits back in his chair. Everything inside me goes cold, even as I take in his rumpled clothes and unshaven face. He's slept by my bedside for at least one night. Two, by the state of his beard.

"Shall I go then?" John asks.

"If you intend to go back to whatever it is you've been doing these past two months, then I think it would be for the best," I say simply.

"Do you mean working at the clinic?" John asks incredulously. "Of course I'll be working at the clinic. It's my job. People need me there."

I may not be people, but I need him, too. "Then I guess it would be easier if we didn't have to prolong this, as the longer you stay the harder it will be to…"

"What?"

"To just sit here and watch," I snap angrily. "I don't even enjoy solving cases anymore, and it's your bloody fault!"

"What?"

"It's not the same!" I spout off. "It's just me now, isn't it? No John tagging along to-"

"What?" he interrupts. "Take notes? Admire your massive intellect?"

I shake my head. "I never had a problem with being alone until I knew what it was like to not be. You're the one person who ever treated me like a person, and… Well, you've made your views perfectly clear. So, leave. You should just… leave."

John stands and everything inside me stops.

"I've made one last deduction, Sherlock."

"What?" I ask, wishing he would get it over with.

"You're an absolute imbecile."

I scoff. "Well, if that's-"

He touches my face and I can't speak. "I left because I didn't think you cared."

"Of course I care," I whisper and my stomach gives a painful lurch.

"Fooled me," he says. "Honestly, I was tired of feeling like one of your experiments, Sherlock."

"No," I promise. "No, you were never-"

He places two fingers on my lips to stop me talking. "No need to explain," John assures me. "The rest is just transport."

He leans in and kisses me gently. I lift my head, dying for more, but he breaks away too soon. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

He starts to walk away. "Wait-" I strangle out.

"I may come when you call, love you unconditionally, and even play fetch when you need a phone from your own pocket, but I am not a dog you can kick about as you please."

"No," I agree.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"I love you," I crack. He freezes.

Finally, it hits me. I know why I love John. It isn't his praise or admiration or impressed audience. It's the simple fact that he was there, sharing it with me, believing in my potential for humanity.

"You love me," he repeats and I can't read his tone. His back is to me. "Do you even know what that means, Sherlock?"

"Maybe not," I admit. "But I know that if I've ever cared for anyone, it's you. And I know that I've never experienced a pain like the pain I felt when you gave up on me."

"I didn't give up on you."

"Yes," I insist, "you did, John. You called me inhuman and walked out."

"I didn't call you inhuman."

"Fine," I sigh. "You said I had no feelings. I don't know which is worse."

His back is still facing me, and it's infuriating. He doesn't speak again, so I continue. "John, if you're going to leave, you should leave. I was only hoping that… The kiss… Are you going to do anything, John? Please, just…"

I think about telling him that I won't do this again, that I'll probably give myself enough morphine to kill an elephant the second I'm home, but I don't want him to return to 221B out of obligation. I don't want pity. I just want him.

He turns to me, eyes shining. "You're a bloody idiot."

"Occasionally true."

"How much morphine must you have been taking, Sherlock?"

"Not enough."

"Bloody idiot."

I don't reply again. I'm waiting for him to either leave or… Whatever he plans to do if he doesn't leave.

"If I should walk over and kiss you right now?"

"Just as I did a minute ago, I'd kiss you back."

"And when you should get bored of me?"

"I won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes and I know everything."

John laughs a little, and then does as he threatened. In spite of the energy it takes, I reach up and pull him closer. I think a tear is running down my face and I burrow into his neck. "Are you staying?" I ask.

"I thought you knew everything?"

"Doesn't mean I don't want to hear it."

"I'm staying."

"Good."

_A/N: So that's the end. I'd really love to know what you thought of it._


End file.
